


a beautiful start (to a lifelong love letter)

by bucketofrice



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M, Plotless Fluff, basically he's thinking a whole love letter, he's truly a sap but we love him for it, introspective as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: "Would have strung togetherThe very first words of a lifelong love letterTell the world that we finally got it all rightI choose you."orScott lays in bed and waxes poetic about Tessa.





	a beautiful start (to a lifelong love letter)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This little one-shot kind of came out of nowhere. It's just that Scott is a soft bro and he sometimes really just needs to get his feelings out there. Okay?
> 
> Title is from "I Choose You," by Sara Bareilles.

He wakes to sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains, scattering throughout the room, dappling over their bodies and drenching them in a soft glow. Everything around him is quiet, save for their breathing, slow and steady and even. It’s still early, he realizes when he angles his head over to the nightstand, barely past six. 

They don’t need to move for a while. 

He’s tangled up in her, arms and legs and hands entwined, unsure where he ends and she begins. It’s his favourite place to be, he decided a long time ago — when moments like this were still few and far between, and never guaranteed to be repeated — lying in bed, his lungs and heart and limbs full of her. Now he knows this isn’t a one-time deal, a ‘cash in the cheque and spend it all at once’ kind of thing, but a lifetime investment, one that’ll grow as the interest accumulates, steadily, over time.

The sheets cover their bodies haphazardly, limbs sticking out uncovered, and he lets his eyes roam over their half-hidden forms. 

A sense of peacefulness and calm blooms deep inside him, spreading from his heart out through the rest of his body, all the way to his fingertips. He thinks he hasn’t felt this settled in years, even with the Olympics looming (they’ve got two years, but he knows they’ll pass in the blink of an eye), hasn’t ever felt this grounded and secure and utterly loved. 

He can feel her heartbeat in his chest, slow and steady, her torso pressed against his and her head settled in the juncture between his ribcage and his shoulder. Her hair is fanned out around her head, all chestnut and loose waves, strawberry-scented and soft and perfect to card his hands through. He does, lazily picking up a strand and twirling it in his fingers, careful not to tug and wake her up.

Under different circumstances, she’d welcome the gentle tug on her scalp, and he knows she’d then insist (in the spirit of fairness) to fist her hand in his hair in return. It’s the reason he thinks he might grow his hair out this season, just to see how far her love of the flow will go.

His hands move from her hair to her shoulder blades, passing softly over the porcelain skin they find there, tracing mindless patterns in the most delicate fashion. He uses the smattering of freckles as a guide, playing a game of connect-the-dots on her spine, drawing masterpieces that will only ever exist in his mind’s eye.

Which is fine, he thinks, because the real thing is so much better. 

The real thing is _Tessa_ : vibrant and bright and hilarious and endlessly caring, a radiant beam of sunlight breaking through the clouds. She’s a force of nature, and he’s so deeply honoured to be able to stand by her side and watch her be brilliant, cheering her on every step of the way.

Now he won’t pretend that his favourite accomplishments of hers aren’t the ones he’s shared in — standing on a podium and belting out your anthem is a feeling that can’t be beat — but it’s not really the glory of it all that he loves so much. It’s all the in-betweens.

It’s the way his hand fits in hers, like they’re two perfectly crafted pieces of a puzzle, meant to slot together _just so_. It’s the way she moves in his arms: graceful, fluid and symphonic, her movement effortless and a sight to behold. It’s her strength, held deep in her small frame, but apparent to anyone who gets to know her.

(It’s not just physical — though her core strength is a truly impressive thing in its own right — it’s her absolute steadfast determination and grit which has gotten them through so much, has gotten _her_ through so much. Through moving, and shitty boyfriends, through surgeries, through betrayal, through his absence, through eighteen years by his side.)

It’s the connection they share, on the ice and off of it, that indescribable bond between them. He doesn’t want to live a single day without it, without the knowledge that there’s another soul out there that knows his as well as she knows her own. Without the knowledge that sometimes, she knows him better than he knows himself, and vice versa.

It’s the way he can just _be_ in her presence: unguarded and truthful, showing every facet of himself and knowing that she’s seen him at his best and at his worst, and loves him anyway. It’s the fact that he’s pretty sure she can say the same about him. 

He stops his exploration of her shoulder blades and back, her warm skin reminding him vividly of last night, the memories sending a shiver up his spine and a flush up his neck. Last night was re-establishing a connection, after a long week of training and early mornings and busy nights.

Last night was getting his fill of something he’d craved for days, last night was raw and passionate and nearly made him weep. Now, hours later and still sated and spent and utterly grateful, he feels nothing but pure, unadulterated love deep in his chest.

His heart beats in a rhythmic pizzicato, slow and steady, and he realizes with a smile that her heartbeat matches his. Their breaths have synched up overnight too and he relishes in the slow in-and-out, in-and-out that fills the room. She exhales warmly on his shoulder, the puff of air causing his skin to prickle.

It’s comforting to know that even in sleep, they’re moving together as one.

His gaze drifts further along her body and catches on her torso, mostly hidden underneath the heavy down comforter she loves so much. He knows that below it, there’s the expanse of her toned stomach, all abs and that damn bellybutton piercing she knows drives him wild.

He’d frozen when he felt it the first time, distinctly remembers sucking in a sharp breath when he’d grazed it with his hand during practice, on the exit from a lift. He remembers his initial shock, replaced quickly by a shot of feeling straight to his groin.

All the half-truths he’d been telling himself about Tessa’s supposed innocence were disproven right there, meaning he had to begin to face the feelings he was so desperate to hide. He can admit now that his way of dealing with those feelings — sleeping around and shutting her out and then sleeping with _her_ and subjecting her to radio-silence — was ill-advised and bordering on destructive, but somehow, she’s still here and he is too and for that he’s grateful.

Another constant reminder of his gratitude are her calves, peeking out from under the duvet. The scars on them have faded, they’ve turned milky white and now almost blend into her pale complexion, but he still catches himself often, running his fingers over them, peppering them with kisses and thanking the heavens that she got through the surgeries in one piece and stuck with him.

Even when he’d been a monumental asshole. _Especially then._

He continues to catalogue her body as best he can with the duvet and his own limbs in the way, filling in the gaps with mental images that are almost as vivid as the real thing. The room is still quiet and it’s peaceful; his eyes have the time to roam unhindered and appreciate the sight.

He wonders if his actions are bordering on creepy, considering he’s basically watching her sleep, but then decides it’s more like standing in a museum, looking at Degas’ _L’ Etoile_ — the solitary dancer striking and luminous, ethereal among the other figures, all soft lines and grace. A work of art, worthy of all the praise and appreciation.

And love. 

All the love he’d always had for her, but only recently learned to properly express. They’d finally crossed that one line that remained between them, laid it all out in the open, and the result has been glorious. 

It’s still so new, this thing between them, but at the same time he thinks they’ve been preparing for it all their lives. 

Since they started it, he thanks god every day that he gets to see her like this, free from any obligations or outside pressure, just _Tessa_ , here on the bed, bathed in sunlight and practically glowing. 

He’s fighting the urge to pepper her skin with kisses, to drag his tongue along the shell of her ear, to whisper that he loves her, _so much_ , over and over and over again, like a mantra. But he doesn’t dare wake her, instead determined to enjoy this feeling, of her in his arms, every single string attached.

It’s a few minutes later (or hours, he really doesn’t know) when she stirs, almost imperceptibly at first. Her nose crinkles as the sunlight hits it _just so_ , and her face scrunches up as she starts resisting the lingering pull of sleep. 

She moves slowly, like she’s regaining the use of her limbs one by one and he can’t help but smile as she returns to a state of consciousness. She cracks one eye open, then the other, the corners of her mouth quirking slightly upwards.

He knows to anticipate her next move, shifts slightly so she can stretch out like a cat, her spine arching as her limbs splay out at her sides. She releases a contented hum and sets her chin on his chest, looking up at him through a sea of _green, gorgeous green_. Her eyes are especially bright in the mornings, he’s noticed, even though her state of being may be anything but.

He can’t help himself now; she’s awake and he just has to kiss her. He dips down, shifting so he’s angled better and she meets him halfway.

She closes her eyes as he presses his lips to hers, softly, like a feather’s brush. He cups her cheek with his hand, gently stroking it with the pad of his thumb and she opens her eyes again as he dips down to steal another kiss. 

It’s longer this time, still just as soft and reverent, but she brushes the seam of his lips with her tongue and he parts them willingly. 

It’s slow and languid between them, like time doesn’t matter and there’s nowhere to be but here (today, there isn’t and he’s eternally glad for that fact) and at one point she reaches her hand to the back of his neck, finding purchase in his hair.

He glints at her, breaking the kiss to smirk and roll them over, quick as a wink.

He’s hovering over her now, everywhere all at once, distinctly aware of her below him, spread out like a flower. He dips down, kisses her cheek, her nose, her collarbone, her sternum, her lips (twice), her forehead, everywhere he can.

She arches into him, trying to find purchase or at least slot his lips back to hers, but he sees right through her. 

He cocks a brow, winks and decides to lavish attention on the crook of her neck instead. It’s his favourite place, he figured out a while ago, and now that she’s in his bed and he’s in hers with considerable regularity, he’s had plenty of time to get even better acquainted with it. 

He gets a bit lost in her, he has to admit, but it’s an easy fate, what with all the creamy skin and freckles below him, so he’s distracted enough for her to shift them both so they’re laying on their sides.

They’re face to face now, holding eye contact, smiles gracing both their features. She shifts closer to him, entangling their legs and resting her hand on his shoulder. 

All he hears is the sound of their breathing and their hearts beating together, in staccato now, impatiently anticipating the next move. 

She opens her mouth like she’s about to speak but he stops her, resting a finger on her lips. He doesn’t want to break the spell.

As if to make his point, he pulls the duvet up over their heads, cocooning them in, making a little bubble for two. She giggles at his antics, the sound clear like a bell, and he grins. 

It’s one of his favourite sounds, a close second to her laugh-cry, and he can’t help but drop a kiss to her temple, pulling her close so her head pillows on his chest again. He pushes the duvet back so their heads are exposed, sneaking another glance at the alarm clock. 

It’s just past eight, still too early to move.

He can already feel her going lax in his grip, fading out of consciousness and back into sleep. It’s a good idea, he thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before closing his eyes too. Sleep takes him easily, the steady rhythm of her chest rising and falling providing comfort, and he wraps his arms around her so they’re once again tangled together. It’s unclear where one of them begins and the other ends, and his last thought is that it’s perfect that way. They’ve become one over the years, in every sense of the word.

The sun is up now, the room bathed in a soothing yellow light. The only sounds are once again their breaths, deep and even.

It’s quiet and peaceful.

He dreams of her again (like almost every night), dreams of telling her everything he thought about earlier, a love letter he’s just beginning and will keep writing for the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> The painting Scott compares her to is _L' Etoile_ by Edgar Degas (he's the one with all the dancers). Here's a link: https://www.edgar-degas.org/L-Etoile.html
> 
> As always, feel free to yell at me in comments or on Tumblr (good-things-come-in-threes) or Twitter (_bucketofrice).


End file.
